The largest of the ground floor rooms was what Aelyn took to be the office of whichever watch officer had run this place. It boasted a solidly-built desk and chair, a half-stocked weapons rack and scroll shelving along one wall that overflowed with rolled parchments. A large street map of the Docksflow and Marketsway districts dominated another wall, festooned with brass pins and faded notes; Aelyn assumed each pin related to a recent incident. She noted uncomfortably that, if she tilted her head slightly, they described the rough shape of a crescent moon.

Borik, Bartiman and Eleanora were all sleeping in this room, their bedrolls pushed up against the wall nearest the weapons. A couple of the watchmen had chosen to bed down here too. Watchman First Class Shen stood guard by the window. A pale sliver of moonlight made a sickly stripe across the man’s face. It made him look pale and drawn.

As Aelyn and Romilla entered, he looked around.

‘Who’s in the upper lookout?’ he asked softly.

‘Currently, no one,’ replied Aelyn. ‘We’ve rested long enough. We need to make plans.’

‘Not alone, you won’t,’ said Shen, and Aelyn couldn’t tell whether his firm tone was meant to sound comradely or threatening. ‘I’ll wake a couple of the third class and set them on guard. If you mercenaries are planning your next move, myself, First Class Marika and First Class Thackeray should join you.’

‘As you wish,’ said Aelyn. The watchmen knew that she had been entrusted with Captain Morthan’s brooch of office. No one knew what had become of Lieutenant Grange, and in his absence the watchmen seemed to have assumed that meant Morthan had also entrusted Aelyn with the fight for Draconium. When talking their way into the sanctuary of the safe house, it had seemed prudent not to disabuse them of the notion. She wondered, though, how they would feel by the end of the conversation she knew must be had. Were the Swords of Sigmar Draconium’s saviours, or mercenaries who would cut and run now that the money had dried up?

Honestly, at that moment, even Aelyn herself didn’t know the answer to that question.

While Romilla went in search of breakfast, Aelyn woke each of her comrades in turn. Borik, whose only concession to comfort had been removing his helm before he fell asleep, was surly and quiet. Bartiman was pale and drawn; the deaths of his companions seemed to have aged him, and he required some effort to wake. Eleanora smiled wanly at Aelyn when she woke, but her skin was clammy and warm to the touch.